


like a magpie and a ring

by littlemachines



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Breathplay, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Riding, he dances and gerome feels some way, i got rid of the pwp tag because it was a LIE, inigo is chrom's son for princely privileges
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 01:45:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5520791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemachines/pseuds/littlemachines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the brief moments like this that Gerome remembered that Inigo balanced a soldier’s body on the tip of his toes. He moved with deadly grace, with legs that killed men on the battlefield and in the bedroom.</p><p>It was the rare moments like this that Gerome remembered that Inigo was a mercenary and his body was a weapon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like a magpie and a ring

**Author's Note:**

> okay first of all whoever designed olivia's dancer outfit needs to meet me in the PIT  
> anyway hello i just got into fe:a a while back and i love inigo with all my heart but i should b studying so have somethin fairly plotless for now...... I'll Be Back  
> the title and lyrics are from toes by lights but in actual fact i wrote this fic with anthem by ikon on repeat  
> just ignore the details of inigo's outfit honestly i winged it  
> merry christmas y'all HAPPY READING!!! ♡

* * *

_i am always going to be looking right to you_

* * *

Inigo was undressing when Gerome came to him.

The festivities continued outside, loud but quieter than they were earlier, most of the Shepherds finding a day, a week, months of fighting Risen taking the toll on their bodies. They had passed through villages before but merely that: passing.

Gerome hadn’t slept on a bed in half a year. He had forgotten how it felt to relax his body, to curl up or spread out. Sleep should have come easier but he was tense, too aware of the empty space around his body and Brady’s mumbling sleep talking across the room, entirely unlike the tiny, breathy sounds he had been falling asleep to recently. Breathy sounds too dangerous to think about, especially after tonight. Frustrated, Gerome had got up, ran a hand through his hair and retrieved his mask. It was wasteful to lay there, afraid of the direction of his own thoughts. Plus, Minerva was a lot quieter night-time company than Brady.

Beds were useless. Gerome knew he wouldn’t sleep soundly in one until the war was over and they had _won_. Only rewritten fate would make it easier to sleep.

There was life behind the doors in the corridors. Gerome could hear Lucina and Severa talking in the room across Gerome’s own. Further up the corridor, though Gerome heard it several doors away, Vaike was sleeping very loudly. Somewhere, a woman was singing. Gerome didn’t deliberate at the door separating him from his mother and father, one of the quietest rooms he passed. At the end of the hall, Inigo had a room of his own, second in luxury only to his parents and on par with his sister’s which was silent in abandonment. The distribution had been random with the exception of the royal family. He doubted Chrom had any idea that Lucina had left her grand bed to lower herself into a lesser one but given what kind of character Lucina was, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. You got used to rocks in your back. They reminded you that there was still terrain that needed clearing. Gerome and Lucina had that much in common, he supposed.

Despite himself, Gerome had paused outside Inigo’s room. _Curiosity_ , he thought. Tonight had been the prince’s night. Gerome had never seen so many women flock to him after the curtain fell and never had he seen Inigo look so accomplished, skin pink and sweat drenched, smile more powerful than the lights that gathered on him like _they_ were the moths and he was the flame. Gerome thought little of what he’d do for a living if he could put down the axe. It was breath-taking to see someone _know_ , every limb aching to break free from the constraints of battle after battle and reach, fingertips grazing the sky and toes sweeping the ground, like a bird ready to launch into flight. Even now, remembering, stood outside Inigo’s door, Gerome could scarcely breathe. Gerome had seen Inigo dance, stumble and stand and strive again, but tonight, Gerome had seen Inigo _perform_.

The sound of jewellery filtered through the gap underneath the door and either Inigo was awake and still moving or had shifted in bed, having fallen asleep in his dancing outfit. Before Inigo, Gerome struggled little with control. Now, even his thoughts teased him and it took a tremendous amount of willpower to turn away from Inigo’s door and towards the stairs. He was so close when his trained senses betrayed him. A bump as if Inigo had slipped against something, an almost inaudible curse, a sigh. Definitely awake.

Gerome returned to his earlier position, only this time he lifted his fist to tap on Inigo’s bedroom door. He heard stillness in the room and then footsteps but barely. Inigo had at least removed his shoes and stopped on the other side of the door, suspicious as he said, “Who goes there?”

“It’s me,” Gerome replied and then, amused, “You can put the knife away.”

With his natural flair, Inigo threw open the door to glare at Gerome. He hadn’t undressed with the exception of the removal of the translucent veil he had worn to obscure half of his face during the dance, but he was dishevelled, cloth pulled this way and that as if he had attempted to, without much success. Gerome tried not to think too much about it, instead nodding towards the vase he had picked up to use as a weapon that was half hidden behind his back. “An interesting weapon of choice.”

“Shut up,” Inigo huffed, shoving the vase into Gerome’s arms and turning to retreat back into the room. Every movement was meant to be a dance in this outfit, bells ringing, gauze billowing, gold glinting, made to catch the eye and Gerome looked elsewhere, anywhere from the fabric between Inigo’s legs, exposing his thighs and accentuating the curves of his ass.

Gerome moved slowly, closing the door behind him, placing the vase back on the floor carefully and allowing himself a moment to just listen to the sound of Inigo struggling with the cuffs. Then he took to leaning against the wall and watching with what he hoped was little else than amusement. The mask was made for indifference.

Inigo was stood in front of the mirror above the makeshift dressing table, watching his reflection attempt to separate gold from gauze. The whole outfit was ridiculously complex, an intricate design in which one separation tore the whole structure down. Inigo was gentle with it, more careful than Gerome had ever seen him be with anything, lip between his teeth as his hand moved from his wrist, up his arm, to his neck, down his torso, across his waist. _Gods,_ Gerome thought, _even undressing is a dance_.

Inigo didn’t look at him but he knew, behind the mask, Gerome wasn’t stood around, admiring the wall hangings. “ _Jeez_ , Gerome. If you’re not going to help me get out of this thing then the least you can do is take that silly mask of yours off.”

Gerome left his mask untouched and instead pushed himself off the wall to move towards the other man. “You’re too proud to ask for help plainly, aren’t you?”

Inigo snorted, chin turned away when Gerome was close. Dancing had made Inigo’s body move easy but his voice was shaky as it came down from its high, struggling stiffly to keep a hold of itself. Inigo was so exhausted, he wasn’t smiling easy and Gerome knew that being so close to his dreams, dancing with his desires only to have them spun right out of his grasp as they always were, had shaken him more than his hands revealed. He spoke with a harshness that stung a little. “You’re one to talk about pride.”

Gerome ignored him. “Give me your arm.”

Inigo complied. His other hand kept him standing, braced on the desk. The mirror was hung comfortably at Inigo’s head height so Gerome had the pleasure of being unable to see more of his own face than his chin. Instead, he could see the colour to Inigo’s face, the glint in his eye. His body was between excitement and exhaustion. He looked reckless and _spent_.

Gerome averted his gaze to run a gloved finger over the rim of the gold cuff circling Inigo’s bicep. Inigo’s breathing hitched slightly when Gerome tested the tightness by sliding a finger under. He hummed agreeably when he found a clasp.

“That was far simpler than I anticipated,” Gerome said, more to himself but Inigo huffed in offence, tearing his arm from Gerome’s grasp before the cuff could be opened. The movement was ungraceful, with Inigo tottering back against the desk unsteadily. Powders and perfumes fell.

“Oh, yeah?” If Gerome didn’t know any better, he’d think Inigo was intoxicated. “That’s the easy part. Try… try anywhere else.”

“You don’t sound so confident.”

Inigo turned to face him and Gerome didn’t look at what little Inigo’s outfit covered of his front, not this close. “Just undress me already.”

The command lacked sensuality. It was tired, impatient. Gerome could have been one of Inigo’s servants in a time where Inigo could truly enjoy the privileges of being a prince. Perhaps, if they won here, Inigo could go back to a world of silver spoons and golden cuffs. Gerome had refused to think about what that meant for _them_. Going home where Inigo could grow up without a sword in his hand would mean he could find the balance he had on stage today but every day. Gerome couldn’t be selfish. They all had dreams that sent them here and realities to go back to. Gerome wouldn’t let his own be any different, not for a boy who was worlds away back home.

But Inigo was here now. In this past, they had no home, moving from village to village but Gerome felt the closest to it in the clear air with Minerva and in the stubborn arms of a loud-mouthed prince. He felt it watching Inigo move, every clap of his hands and click of his heels bringing them a step closer to returning. If there was a future where Inigo would dance, Gerome would make his home in it, even merely by watching him.

“I suppose it would cost to return it damaged,” Gerome noted, staring out of assessment, not enjoyment. “Is it all… uh, connected?”

“It’s not a loan. Start with this monstrosity of a belt.” Inigo’s tone was less rigid. He leant back on the desk with his palms pressed against it and hips jutted forward. Gerome figured it was supposed to be a helpful gesture. He touched the belt hesitantly, the bells too loud in the quiet and he was grateful when Inigo spoke on. “My mother said I could keep it.”

“A gift?”

“I suppose. It’s made to size. It would have little use to anyone else.”

Less rigid but the casual shrug of his shoulders looked like it ached. Gerome knew this was anything but simple for Inigo. The joy of being able to perform for an audience and to dance _well_ served as a reminder that he couldn’t do it again, not here. Inigo was more useful with a weapon in his hand and it pained him to know that. Gerome’s throat was dry. He wished he was better with words, could reassure Inigo otherwise, do more than undo the belt and let the bells slide down Inigo’s hips and to the floor, filling the silence with something other than tension.

Inigo snapped back into the present with a blink, staring down at the bells at his feet before stepping out of them, the fabric once trapped under the constrains of the belt now free to hang limp at Inigo’s thighs. _So it was purely decorative, huh._ The structure didn’t fall as easy as Gerome had expected it to. It bore resemblance to the man it clung to.

Inigo waved an arm, the other hand pinching the material between the cuffs. “It kept getting stuck on the- _this_ when I attempted to remove the blasted thing.”

“You should have devised a logical order for removing it all,” Gerome said.

Inigo’s response was flat with sarcasm. “Do _you_ have an order for how you undress, Gerome?”

“Of course.” Gerome settled his hands under the cloth at Inigo’s waist. Even through his gloves, Inigo’s skin was hot. “First, the top half of my armour. I wouldn’t be able to bend down to remove the rest if I’m weighed down with metal.”

Inigo opened his mouth to reply, expression indignant, but then Gerome said, “Hold on,” and months of fighting side by side, back to back, pressed against each other as Minerva took flight had Inigo instinctively gripping Gerome’s arms, letting the other man lift him by the waist to sit atop the desk.

It was the brief moments like this that Gerome remembered that Inigo balanced a soldier’s body on the tip of his toes. He was, by no means, as built as Gerome but he was strong, made of curves of muscles juxtaposed with soft skin, tender to touch, easy to mark.

Inigo wriggled to get comfortable and then spread his legs. Gerome looked at him once, his decorated arms, the gold around his neck, the subtle ripple of muscles of his abdomen and then lowered himself to his knees between the dancer’s legs. It would do Gerome good to remember Inigo was not as soft as he seemed, as dangerous as the sirens in sailor stories.

He moved with deadly grace, with legs that killed men on the battlefield and in the bedroom. It was the rare moments like this that Gerome remembered that Inigo was a mercenary and his body was a weapon.

“What next?” Gerome’s asked.

“This,” Inigo said.

He moved as if to wrap his arms around Gerome’s shoulders in embrace but his fingers brushed past strands of hair to untie Gerome’s mask with familiarity. Inigo was famous for dramatizing everything but Gerome’s mask. He pulled it off as easily as he would remove Gerome’s armour, even if only to feel more comfortable pressing his cheek against Gerome’s chest. Yet it was that casualness that made Gerome feel comfortable about letting Inigo see his face. A quick once over, a comment on the bags under his eyes and then something else would entrap Inigo’s attention. Eventually, Gerome came to only want to keep the mask on to hide his reactions to Inigo, shameful and affectionate, but then the strap was torn in a particularly rowdy night out in the town that had backed the two of them into a tight squeeze in a nearby alley and Inigo, half drunk, half hysterical on adrenaline, had leant up on the tip of his toes to take Gerome’s bared face in trembling hands and kiss him (terribly.) And now, Inigo was better at kissing and the mask was as easy for Gerome to take off around the other man as it was for Inigo to pull it off as he did now. Gerome felt confined and exposed all at once. There was no one who saw him, _knew_ Gerome like Inigo did.

“There,” Inigo said with satisfaction as the mask fell to the floor to join the bells of the belt and Gerome didn’t even have the opportunity to say anything before Inigo retracted his touch. He hadn’t even let bare skin touch bare skin. Gerome was beginning to understand the tension that surrounded them and the sharpness of Inigo’s tongue. It wasn’t the pain of exhaustion but a different kind of _ache_.

Inigo leant back with a small smile and looking up at him, words were stuck in Gerome’s throat. Inigo was made for the stage. He always looked his best when one looked up at him. It had been months of being in this very position but for a wholly different reason. The only thing that was the same was the undeniable energy when undressing Inigo. Everything about this – Gerome on his knees and the exposure of more of Inigo’s smooth, clear skin – seemed to remind them of different times.

Their firsts had been embarrassingly awkward, experimental at Inigo’s suggestions but he had known less than even Gerome. They had navigated through it like kids and they _were_. Kids old enough to go to war but young enough to fall in love slow and pathetically, dancing between confessions, toeing the line of those three words. They’d fuck as though they were making love, gentle and serene, and after every time, it got better and things got harder _not_ to say. One climax, Inigo had cried his _I love you_ s into Gerome’s neck, not just once but over and over. Gerome had lost sleep thinking about it, shushed Minerva and left Inigo to dance alone for some nights until he received the end of Lucina’s blade for breaking her baby brother’s heart. Gerome had gone to Inigo to apologise, to explain that they had no place in this world, that the Inigo of the future would grow out of the worst of his terrible tongue and eventually attract the dozens of women that Inigo had cared about before Gerome had satisfied his ego, the women he pretended to care about still to the masses in order to keep his image intact, _Gods, Inigo, you’re a_ prince. But then Inigo had said he didn’t care, he didn’t care about _that_ or _then_. He cared about _this_ , _right now_ , _you, I love you_ and Gerome had found a weakness no mask could hide. He had whispered that he loved Inigo, too, and they got better.

“What now?” Gerome said, again, voice quiet.

In this position, Gerome could see how the cloth clung to his body, over his built shoulders and chest and then lower, between his legs, tight enough, close enough he could see- Inigo shifted and Gerome remembered where he was. Inigo met his eyes solidly as he reached out, right hand meeting Gerome’s own. Not to hold. Easily, Inigo slid Gerome’s glove off his fingertips, all without letting their skin touch.

Gerome waited until Inigo removed the other glove in a similar fashion to speak again, “What now-”

He expected the kiss. Inigo wasn’t patient, he could hardly sit still unless he held his breath, his eyes erratic until Gerome opened his mouth against Inigo’s and he closed them, a soft noise caught between a breath and a moan escaping from his throat as their tongues met. Inigo’s hands lifted to press into Gerome’s shoulders and then around his neck, knotting into the hair at the back of Gerome’s head and Gerome made a low sound at the pull of Inigo’s fingers. Inigo’s legs spread further in invitation. When Gerome placed his hands on Inigo’s thighs, skin to skin, to stand, to _accept_ , Inigo jolted as if he’d been shocked by electric magic. Gerome pulled back, finding balance with a hand braced on the wall beside Inigo’s head and ignoring the mirror, knowing his face was as flushed as the one he had just kissed. Inigo was looking up at _him_ now, mouth wet and eyes wide. And if Gerome was truthful to himself, Inigo looked good from any position. Whatever earth his toes touched, the dancer found a stage and the moon, the sun, the flickering lanterns that cast swaying shadows upon the planes of his face right now were his spotlight. No star burned brighter.

“You saw the dance, didn’t you?” Inigo asked, breathing heavily. “You saw me?”

Gerome didn’t think. He rarely did, when it came to Inigo. “You’re all I saw.”

And if Gerome thought Inigo could look more radiant than he had at that moment, the next stole his breath from him. Already flushed, Inigo _glowed_ , the corner of his eyes crinkling in a smile. Gerome had forgotten what happiness was between a broken future and a fragile past but Inigo was the present. He was joy, a man of laughter and tears all at once, a togetherness that held them _all_ together in war. Inigo looked like victory, glory. He was exhilarating and Gerome could do no more than touch him, marvel at him with a palm against his cheek. Their skin no longer passed electric but the touches were fire, warm then hot as they kissed again, slow and deep and familiar.

Gerome felt his way around the main body of Inigo’s clothes as he pressed the other man into the desk, eyes closed as he pushed the straps from Inigo’s shoulders down and let the material gather around his waist. Inigo stopped him from removing it entirely, dragged him in as soon as they separated as if Gerome not touching him was a siren’s breath out of water. He writhed, gasped into Gerome’s mouth as he lifted his hips to meet Gerome’s and the fabric certainly wasn’t thick enough to conceal Inigo’s growing hardness.

Nor were the walls. It was the desk knocking against the wall a little too hard that pulled them out of their lust. Gerome stepped back, stiff and robotic, half under the command of Inigo’s hand at his chest though Gerome half guessed Inigo was using him as a crutch to stagger up himself. Gerome watched Inigo’s back, the flush of his shoulders and the skin around his collar, and tried to catch his breath. He struggled, unable to look away as Inigo looked at himself in the mirror. Clad only in decorative cuffs, translucent gauze and a sheet around his hips, he was pink cheeked and pink mouthed. Then Inigo looked down.

“There’s more than one way to ruin an outfit,” he said, finally.

Gerome cleared his throat before he spoke. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Inigo breathed out, exasperated, as he looked back at Gerome in the mirror. Gerome was just glad that he couldn’t see most of his own exposed face. “Well, not everyone can have women tearing off their clothes whenever they go out to town.”

Gerome barely stifled a smile at that, amused that Inigo still held it against him though, evidently, the jealousy had turned on its head, somehow, someday. “And not everyone can have… a lover who does a better job of that in private.”

Inigo had held his gaze at the hesitation. Rules of courtship broke during the war. Propriety had long been forgotten. Gerome wasn’t sure he had said the right thing so he leant in, hands at Inigo’s waist, to press a gentle kiss to Inigo’s shoulder. The stiffness ceased. Inigo smiled back as he said, “Are you talking about me or yourself?”

And the white fell to join the black and the gold.

There was a moment of them just standing there, breathing too loud. Inigo’s ass pressed back against Gerome’s crotch snuggly. He was overdressed and waited for Inigo to comment on it.

“Gerome.” Inigo couldn’t meet his own eyes. “Can you fuck me?”

The question was uncertain. Gerome nodded towards the mirror, too confused to be embarrassed. “Here?”

Inigo looked startled, flustered at the implication. Wide eyes, open mouth. “N-no, that’s not- I was talking about- _Gods_.”

Now, Gerome flushed too, feeling ashamed at how he was the one to suggest such a thing and how heat gathered at the pit of his stomach at the sight of Inigo reacting to it. Inigo shuddered, inhaled and exhaled only when Gerome forced his face away from the mirror, pressing their foreheads together. They kissed again, gentler, bare and vulnerable. Even the most heated moment was intimate.

When they separated, Inigo spoke with eyes closed. “When I saw I had a bedroom all to myself- a bed, all to myself, I…” His eyes opened lazily, eyelashes fluttering. He licked his lips. “It was late and I didn’t think you would come and these clothes were so hard to get out of. Gerome, I thought I would burst.”

Gerome wasn’t good at reassurance with words but Inigo didn’t want words. He tilted his head back when Gerome slipped his arms around his waist, pulling Inigo’s back to his chest again, and his hand between Inigo’s legs to wrap around his cock. Inigo said Gerome’s name through clenched teeth and Gerome responded by touching him slowly, torturously until he was fully hard and breathless all over again. It showed on Inigo’s face, eyes on the mirror. Splotches of colour, eyelashes shuttering, pupils dilating under them. Teeth on teeth then teeth on lip, hard before they slipped and Inigo whined, loud and clear, thrusting into Gerome’s hand and back against the bulge in Gerome’s pants.

Gerome paused his movements, thumb over the slit at the head of Inigo’s dick, and simply watched Inigo struggle to regain his breathing. He was wet and shaky kneed already. For all his bravado, Inigo came undone far easier than the clothes he wore.

The hand on Gerome’s forearm dug hard enough to leave fingernail marks. Inigo addressed their reflection. “You know… what you said about… about tearing off your clothes?”

Gerome didn’t say anything, just suppressed another smile. It was so hard not to smile when he was with Inigo and he was still getting used to the feeling. He let go off Inigo and let him turn towards Gerome, push him back.

No matter how wound up Inigo was and how perfectly planned the night turned out to be, there was no escaping the awkward moments that reminded them both of the first times. Inigo backed him towards the bed as they both struggled, ironically, with Gerome’s clothes, clumsy and nostalgic. Inigo tried not to stare too hard when Gerome was completely bare to him. He had failed the first time and he failed now, swallowing hard enough Gerome could follow the movement until it disappeared under the gold of his collar. He ducked his head with the excuse of retrieving a tiny jar from his bag.

When Inigo raised his head, his face was determined. He placed his palms flat against Gerome’s chest and straddled him, pressing him into the sheets. Under Inigo, Gerome was flushed and staring up at him. Half undressed with the golden cuffs catching on each other and the low light of the room, Inigo was an expert at looking like he’d already been fucked before he’d even came. His arousal was exposed and every movement pressed his ass against Gerome’s erection. Gerome could look nowhere else.

Eventually, it got too much. Inigo blushed bashfully. His shyness came back at the strangest of times, just before he went on stage and if Gerome looked at him too hard when they were naked together. He was ridiculous and Gerome laughed, disbelieving, the sound shaky and unpractised. Inigo pouted, mouth open in protest but Gerome lifted a thumb to tease his prominent bottom lip and Inigo breathed in sharply when he realised it was the same hand that Gerome had touched him with earlier. It wasn’t a deliberate decision on Gerome’s part but it was both arousing and strangely heart-warming to find, even after months together, there were still new things that Gerome could do that made Inigo’s cock twitch.

But Gerome wasn’t the only one staring too hard.

“How was I?” Inigo blurted out suddenly and Gerome knew he was talking about the dance. There wasn’t a time when Gerome was more open, mask thrown aside somewhere across the room. Inigo could search his face for a reaction and Gerome would indulge him.

One hand at his hip, one gripping the gauze material on Inigo’s legs, Gerome was silent as Inigo moved to sit up on spread knees, to pick up the jar and coat his fingers in wetness. He moved a single finger, now slick with oil, between his legs and an answer, any words escaped Gerome as he watched Inigo watch back, touching himself.

Gerome forgot the question until Inigo spoke again. “Like this?”

It wasn’t like Inigo wasn’t still embarrassed. One finger in and the spotlight was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. His teeth dragged across his lip, his involuntary quivers making the colour spread to the collar and below. But then Gerome reacted, even in the tiniest way – a jerk of his hips or a hiss between clenched teeth – and Inigo bit down harder, worked faster and relished Gerome watching him fuck himself. Two fingers and Gerome had to grip Inigo’s thighs to not replace his hand with his own. Three fingers, panting, and Gerome was too, saying Inigo’s name in warning.

“I bet you… watched with your mask on,” Inigo said and he was smiling.

Gerome wasn’t. “I’m not wearing it now.”

Inigo laughed breathlessly. He repeated, “Is this like watching me dance?”

“In a way.” Gerome struggled to keep his voice even. He pressed a hand to Inigo’s stomach and felt his trembles or maybe that was Gerome himself. The bed rocked, gently, beneath them. “No less beautiful.”

Inigo tilted his head back and moaned and Gerome could no longer lay idle. He sat up to kiss Inigo, hard and open mouthed. The jar, empty, rolled off the bed and fell to the floor with a low thud. The hands between them wrapped slick around Gerome’s dick, movements mimicking the thrusts of his tongue in Inigo’s mouth, hurried and desperate.

Too soon, not soon enough. Inigo stilled and withdrew his hands, balancing his forearms on Gerome’s shoulders. Then, in one motion, Inigo took Gerome’s cock in its entirety.

For a moment, with them as close to one as two beings could be, there was silence. And then there was too much. The sensations overwhelmed Gerome, the sound of their hearts and the smell of Inigo’s skin and sex and the tight heat that surrounded him, the feeling of being inside Inigo. And uncharacteristic for him, Inigo was waiting. No amount of preparation or practice made Gerome’s size easier to bear but their nights together taught Inigo patience. Gerome was familiar to Inigo; all Inigo had to do was let their bodies be.

And he did. Neither spoke, neither _could_ speak. Inigo breathed sharply until any discomfort subdued but Gerome couldn’t breathe at all. He only exhaled when Inigo looked at him, finally, to say he was ready and routine had Gerome’s hands at Inigo’s hips exerting strength, prepared to push the other man down and fuck him into the sheets, sensory overload be damned. But Inigo’s hands slapped Gerome’s chest, the sound of skin on skin inching him back by surprise. Gerome only understood when he was pushed down, looking up at Inigo once again, who said with excruciatingly stubborn will, “N-no, this is _my_ show.”

And it was. It always was.

Inigo started slow, rolling his hips with his lip trapped between his teeth. His focus forced noises to short breaths, his hair falling over his eyes like the veil he’d worn on stage. But Gerome had known it was Inigo. He knew Inigo’s legs, the hips that swayed from side to side as if they had all the time in the world, the hands that had lifted to frame the half concealed face but Gerome knew those lips better than anything. Inigo raised a hand to run through his hair, pushing it back, and he smiled as he had on stage. Face flushed, tears welling at the corner of his eyes, blissful and belonging.

And just as he had when Inigo took the stage, Gerome could only stare. He had watched the choreography play out with little interest in the dynamics, hearing the crowd but not understanding, not reacting until Inigo came to centre stage, the other dancers surrounding him. And then the jeers and whistling made _sense_. Every flex and curve stretched limits. Every bell rang in line with the beat of the drums. Inigo danced like what music looked like and finding a rhythm, rising and falling, Inigo fucked as though he was dancing.

Inigo’s moans were musical, steadily increasing in volume, and Gerome’s hips arched like reflex. Insistently, Inigo pressed him back into the sheets, meeting Gerome’s thrusts up with his own, harder down. Under his fingertips, Gerome could feel Inigo’s thighs trembling, droplets of sweat and precum dripping down his stomach and his cock, aching to be touched. Inigo’s hands covered Gerome’s, shaking, making Gerome raise his eyes to Inigo’s. In the heat of the moment and the heart of the climax, Inigo forgot to be shy. His hands – his fingers a contrast of pretty skin and battle callouses and his wrists firm enough to wield a weapon and nimble enough to dance with fluidity and elegance – moved, dancing across sweat-drenched and flushed skin. Gerome’s mouth went dry when Inigo teased a nipple lightly, pinching it between his fingers and releasing in time with the noise that his body made when he pulled himself off Gerome. Then Inigo slammed back onto Gerome’s cock, the noise coming from his mouth wet and loud and glorious, and Gerome’s control snapped. He followed the path of Inigo’s hands to find them, raise them over Inigo’s head and lay the dancer into the sheets to fuck him himself.

He was no dancer but Gerome had with Inigo before, leading under Inigo’s directions. Silly and clumsy as they always began but with practice, with familiarity, they became close and intimate and Gerome found nothing disrupted their rhythm. He thrusted into Inigo with the energy that had built up from watching the other man perform, both on stage and on the bed. Inigo was without protest, pinned there, body arching up, fingers knotting into the sheets and the cuffs on his wrists held like chains.

Gerome kissed him but nothing disguised the noises either of them made. This close, Gerome wasn’t concealing anything anymore. He kissed Inigo’s jaw, down it, and grunted into Inigo’s ear when he felt the coolness of the metal circling Inigo’s ankle against the heated skin of his leg and Inigo tightening around him. One hand holding Inigo’s other leg by the thigh then the knee, Gerome’s other hand struggled with the collar around his neck, fingers slipping on the clasp due to sweat and the desperation to remove it and press his lips, his teeth, his mark onto the skin of Inigo’s neck. He succeeded and the collar was thrown to the floor, careless and loud. But then Inigo stopped his hands, tightened them around his own neck and looked at Gerome with the command of a prince in his eyes. If the rhythm stuttered, it was only because Inigo could still surprise him.

But then Gerome’s hands were firm around Inigo’s neck and he found cadence again. He could watch Inigo anywhere and he watched Inigo here, under him, thumb pressed into his throat, increasing pressure in line with his thrusts. Inigo’s arms moved over his head again, stretching at ease and stilling when metal met metal. His hair was ruffled, spread over the sheets, royal blue on pure white. Inigo’s face was pink, mouth open without a sound, the noises dying under Gerome’s hands at his throat. Gerome had never been louder and Inigo, face flushed and eyelashes fluttering, came to the sound of his open groans.

Encore. Gerome rode out Inigo’s orgasm to reach his own, watching Inigo’s rhythm descend as he arched, outstretched and released onto himself. Gerome’s own ascended into climax and he came to the sound of an escaped, choked moan and the sight of Inigo, all gauze and gold and the cum staining his bare torso.

They didn’t end with flourish. Gerome’s hands slipped from Inigo’s throat and his body replaced the pressure, his arms giving way. Inigo was gasping and pulling Gerome in, their mouths meeting messily as if the kiss would give him breath, _life_. Gerome felt, rather than saw, Inigo crying. His lips quivered and his voice, sore and hoarse, shook as he said, “I love you.” Only once, Inigo was unable to speak anymore. But it was enough. It always had been.

And Gerome was louder now too. He found balance on his elbows and even though his hands trembled too, he wiped away Inigo’s tears with tenderness, with the thumbs that had previously pressed against the base of his throat.

“I love you,” Gerome said, as clear as day, and Inigo’s breath still caught before he smiled, as bright as the sun. And then he laughed, winced when it hurt, and Gerome rolled his eyes and his body off him. The curtain fell.

But no one talked about after. The clearing of the stage, Gerome cleaning them up, wiping Inigo down gently and it was a good thing he couldn’t speak; his eyes said enough bad jokes about his princely status to last them both their lifetimes. No one talked about the dressing room and how Gerome held Inigo’s weak arms up to slip off the cuffs and let them lay to rest on the floor with the other articles of randomly discarded clothing. No one talked about the satisfaction in the performer’s smile, the happiness in the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes. Gerome ran a gentle hand through Inigo’s hair and excused himself, saying he was going to get some water. Inigo was too tired to demand Gerome to stay. Or maybe he knew, by now, that Gerome would always come back.

And Gerome did, with a glass of water that had to be placed upon the table, forgotten because Inigo had fallen asleep, easier, more comfortable than Gerome had ever seen him. Naked now, his still wet eyelashes were dark against the pleased pink of his cheeks. The sheets were thrown over his legs lazily and his body was curled inwards, leaving enough room for another, for Gerome. Inigo would wake up with rocks gathered at the back of his throat but Gerome didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead, he found his place next to Inigo. With Inigo laid against the crook of his neck and in the afterglow, Gerome found the bed wasn’t as useless as he had first decreed.

Gerome fell asleep to the soft, familiar sound of Inigo’s breathing.

*

Minerva was unsettled the next day, unimpressed with Gerome for not paying her a visit the night prior. Comforting a Wyvern was almost as difficult of a task as pleasing the crown prince of Ylisse.

Almost.

Lucina had gathered their generation, a map unrolled between her fingers. She was explaining formations, their next mission, and it took Gerome’s bones longer to settle back into this reality, far from the night he had spent with-

Owain’s voice carried over everyone else’s. “Where’s Inigo?”

“With Mother,” Lucina said, without looking up from the map. “Something about his dancer outfit.”

The gauze that had covered Inigo’s legs hadn’t escaped the mess they made and Gerome took Minerva in the morning to discard it far from their lodgings. Later, Gerome found out that Inigo had to spin a web of white lies to convince his mother that asking Gerome’s mother to stitch up the supposed rips in the gauze was unnecessary. _No,_ really _, Mother. It was a silly mistake on my part when I was… uh, undressing. No need to bother Cherche- and my neck is fine, you don’t need to prod at it so!_

When Gerome took flight with Minerva, he could make out the colour of Inigo’s hair at whispering distance from his mother and behind Chrom, who led the Shepherds to their next destination. Gerome was nowhere near close enough to see details but he knew Inigo’s neck had bruises where the collar and Gerome’s hands once circled.

Now, the gold collar sat at the bottom of Gerome’s bag. Inigo had pulled a face and demanded it back when Gerome suggested giving it to Minerva to wear as a ring on one of her claws, a flat voiced joke but said with a smile.

“Marry Minerva then,” Inigo had huffed and the word _marry_ made them both go still. But then Gerome nudged Inigo’s shoulder with his own and Inigo sighed into a smile, a kiss.

And it hurt less to think about the future. They were here to make their own, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @damenlaurents (currently deactivated because uni hiatus)  
> tumblr: mutsunokamiyoshiyukis.tumblr.com (i'm super lazy on there but hmu anyway)


End file.
